Not Fair
by A Mad Man With A Box
Summary: "I could do so much more. SO. MUCH. MORE. But this is what I get." End of Time.


Written because I felt like it.

This is not a rewrite. It is just a write. Though it is awesome.

END OF TIME SPOILERS

Disclaimer: Don't own Doctor Who.

Four Knocks  
by LilyRoseXD

They do not echo  
They do not taunt  
They simply linger  
And yet they haunt…

Go to Rose Kelvin on Fictionpress for the rest of the poems she writes for my stories.

* * *

Not Fair

There were pieces of glass digging into the Doctor's back. He lay spreadeagled on the black and white star in the floor. He stared up at the glass dome of the ceiling, unable to believe he was still alive. If not for the pain he was experiencing, he wouldn't have believed he was. All this time, all these people, everyone saying he was going to die, the Master would kill him and that would be the end of it. But they were wrong. They were wrong.

He turned over onto his side, a shuddering breath escaping his mouth. He raised his head up and off the shards of glass.

"I'm alive," he managed to say. He spoke the words into being, able to believe them with his whole self now that they hung in the room.

He gradually was able to turn onto his stomach. He raised himself on his arms, as little noises of disbelief escaped his open mouth. His eyes were wide, as if he could actually see himself not dying and was unable to believe it.

"I'm still alive," he had to say them again. He had to tell the room, to tell the sky and the night and the plants spinning a million miles away and everyone who'd ever doubted him, and everyone who hadn't as well.

He let out a choked noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, a breathless ecstatic noise of delight at the sheer joy of being alive. He allowed himself a small smile, though it ached the cuts in his face.

Then there were the knocks. They weren't loud, they weren't soft. They didn't echo inside his head, they didn't taunt him with their malice. They were just matter-of-fact. They were neat, ordered, and stately.

The smile slipped off his face, but nothing else changed. His eyes were still wide, his mouth was still hanging open, but there was a coldness there now. There was a fearful horror and the gut-wrenching pain of misguided hope.

The knocks came again. It didn't even taunt him the second time. Didn't kick him when he was down. It wasn't even trying to grab his attention. It was just there. It intruded on his thoughts like it was forcing its way into his skull.

He let the knocks sound a third time before he turned. And by then, he knew. He knew. The sound of the electrics from the isolation chamber told him everything. His brain made the connection in a second, but he did not change his expression as he turned to face Wilfred.

The fourth time the knocks sounded were teasing. It knew that he knew. It cackled at him and his fate like an overly evil villain from a cheap book. He stared blankly at Wilf who gave a little wave that seemed utterly out of place in the Doctor's brain.

"They gone then?" Wilf asked unnecessarily.

The Doctor just stared, not believing how Wilf could just _not_ know. He had no idea what he'd done and what it meant and how much the Doctor just wanted to scream and shout and refuse to stand and take it like he always had, inexpressively and emotionlessly.

The Doctor didn't even bother replying to Wilf.

Wilf nodded like the Doctor had actually said something. "Yeah, good-o, if you could…" Wilf gestured around at the pulsing electrics, "let me out."

The Doctor just kept on staring. He wanted to refuse to accept it, to tell Time that he wouldn't be its pawn anymore, that he wasn't just a mouse to be played with.

"Yeah," was all he said, unable to stop his voice from being as thick and heavy as sap.

Wilf still didn't get it. "I mean…this thing seems to be making a bit of a noise," he raised his voice to get his point across as if the Doctor didn't know exactly what was happening.

The Doctor knew he'd have to explain to Wilf. But he wish he didn't have to. Wilf would want to sacrifice himself and so on which the Doctor could never allow him to do. He sighed and got up, glass tinkering as it skidded off his suit and onto the floor.

"The Master… left the Nuclear Bolt running," he faced Wilf through the glass of the isolation chamber. "It's gone into overload."

Wilf still didn't catch on. "And that's bad, is it?"

"No," the Doctor weighed the word in his mouth, "cause all the excess radiation gets vented inside there. Vinvocci Glass, contains it," he took a breath. "All five hundred thousands rads. About to flood that thing."

"Oh," Wilf still didn't understand what the big deal was. He chuckled slightly. "Well you'd better let me out then," was all he said, looking expectantly at the Doctor.

The Doctor averted his gaze. "Except it's gone critical," he raised his eyes to stare at Wilf again.

Wilf's face was blank, eyes wide and mouth slightly open as he stared at the Doctor, trying to understand what was happening but still not grasping the big picture.

"Touch one control and it floods," the Doctor reached into his suit pocket and drew out the sonic screwdriver. He held it out and looked at it, wondering how such an amazing marvel of technology that had saved him countless times could let him down now. It just had to be now.

"Even this would set it off."

Wilf was starting to get it. He glanced around at the surrounding glass before looking back at the Doctor. He breathed.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely.

The Doctor's mouth formed words but they were never uttered. He just turned away and pocketed the sonic screwdriver.

"But…just leave me," Wilf said.

Didn't Wilf see? He didn't leave anyone to die unless he absolutely had to, he was just making it worse for the Time Lord, being noble and selfless and telling the Doctor to leave him. Now the Doctor had to top that. But it was so hard. The world seemed so cruel. With the knocks and the warnings and the nightmares that had made him wake up screaming coming true.

The Doctor looked back at Wilf.

"Okay, right then, I will," he didn't even try to make it sound like he was being sarcastic. He was too old and too tired to try anymore.

And then it all came out.

He strolled away from the glass, unable to stare his fate in the face. He stared around at the room that teased him with its life and colour and mortality.

"Because you had to go in there, didn't you?" he accused. Why did he have to be selfless? Why did he have to sacrifice himself for people? It was Wilf's fault. It was all Wilfred's fault. But it was too late now. He'd chosen his path. He'd been a good person. And this was what he got for it.

"You had to go and get stuck. Oh yes." He told the room as if it cared before turning to Wilfred again. A small part of him was relishing in Wilf's shock and amazement at the Doctor's outburst.

"Because that's who you are Wilfred," his voice almost broke as he spoke as he stared at the old man who was so so mortal. The man who looked like such a giant.

"You were always this, waiting for me, all this time," he told the ceiling and then the floor.

"Oh really," Wilf finally spoke, "just leave me. I'm an old man, Doctor," he pointed out, not choosing to mention how much older the Doctor was than him, "I've had my time."

"Well, exactly, look at you. Not remotely important!" the Doctor snapped, not knowing if he was meaning the words or not.

Wilf looked taken apart at his words, hurt even. The Doctor was choosing to forget how Wilf had fought in wars, he'd done his bit for his country and made the right decisions.

"But me!" The Doctor walked away from Wilfred again, staring up at the ceiling and choosing to talk to it instead.

"I could do so much more."

"SO. MUCH. MORE!" He beat his chest with his palms as he shouted at the ceiling and at the world and at the whole of creation for shaping his life like this. He didn't even attempt to keep his despair and anger off his face.

"But this is what I get," he leaned against a cluttered table, hardly even aware of what he was doing anymore. "My reward."

"AND IT'S NOT FAIR!" he suddenly yelled, shoving papers off the desk in a blind rage.

He straightened up and faced Wilf again, breathing heavily and face filled up with pure fear and sorrow. There was no point him denying to Wilf that he was scared.

Wilf was blinking rapidly and frowning at him in concern, but he hardly noticed.

All he saw was the glass, the electrics, the radiation and how it would seep and strangle and dance in glee. And then there was nothing.

There was no room. There was no Wilf. There was no glass shards around him. There were no cuts or bruises on his surface.

There was the room inside him, with a tiny insignificant being that refused to die, and there were the shards of his existence and there were the cuts in his soul. And there was his death.

And there was nothing else.

"Ohhh," he breathed, unable to believe that he'd do this again, he'd seem noble and selfless and brilliant and the most wonderful man in the world on the outside. But on the inside he refused to. He was cold and brewing and raging at everything in the whole of creation.

"Live too long."

And he walked to his death.


End file.
